


Shadowcraft

by Saucery



Series: Space Husbands [8]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alliances, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Consent Issues, Diplomacy, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, Jim Kirk is a Big Ol' Softy, Kindness, Leather Kink, Logic, M/M, Master/Slave, Morality, Opposites Attract, Rape/Non-con References, Romance, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Spock is the Universe's Most Logical Slave, Strategy, Telepathy, Tests and Trials, Vulcan, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shadow makes no movement of its own. A shadow mirrors its master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadowcraft

* * *

  


The Vulcan ambassador is a stern woman that reminds Jim of those headmistresses in ancient German porn, the ones that turned out to be lesbian dominatrices at Catholic boarding schools. She's even got the hair, all done up in this complicated and ridiculously severe bun, but the sideburns are new, as are the pointed ears. Not just a lesbian dominatrix - a lesbian _elf_ dominatrix. Yowza.

He very carefully ejects these thoughts from his mind when he shakes her hand - wouldn't do to have her see _that_ image - and her eyes narrow. Jim hides a wince, and withdraws his hand from her crushing grip. Three times the strength of Humans, huh? He can just imagine what that would do for a paddle. Or the schoolgirl _being_ paddled. Hm.

"Captain Kirk," she pronounces, icily, and Jim wonders if he's blown the treaty all to hell, already. "We come in peace. We may yet, however, depart at war."

Huh. So maybe he _hasn't_ ruined it; that's the standard Vulcan greeting, exactly as he'd been prepped to expect. Thank Godot for Uhura, anyway. "You do us a great honor by considering us worthy adversaries," Jim replies, in Vulcan form, "but we may yet be worthier allies."

She smiles. Thinly. "You flatter yourself to think that the Human race has enough to offer in allied ventures against a common foe."

Well, fuck you, too. "Nevertheless, the foe _is_ common, and you'd hardly consider going to war with someone who was of so little threat that they would not, in a another context, make a worthy ally."

"Your logic is intriguing."

"My logic is correct."

She considers him. "So it is," she says. "My name is T'Mek. I will join you in your Strategy Room."

Jim does _not_ fist-pump, although he's sorely tempted to. Instead, he bows his head, and T'Mek bows hers, in return. They walk to the office in a peculiar, fraught sort of silence. The corridor is empty; Jim had told his staff to stay the hell clear, since apparently, the Vulcans prefer one-on-one meetings in order to prevent intelligence leaks. Jim thinks that's hypocritical, since the _Vulcans_ are fucking telepaths capable of transmitting thoughts and information to their bondmates across vast stretches of space, and there's no telling whether T'Mek is creating an intelligence leak of her own. If she's bonded. To a hot Catholic schoolgirl.

Not that Jim can do anything about it, even if she _is_ ; he's under strict orders to comply with the Vulcan's demands inasmuch as Humanly possible. Not that Jim actually _follows_ orders, most of the time, but even he isn't willing to land them in a bloodbath with the fucking warlords of the known universe - not if he can make peace with them, instead. And if he _can_ forge an alliance with them, then, heh. The Cardassians can consider their asses roundly kicked.

After two hours of heckling and fifteen minutes of wordless, mutual appraisal in which Jim tries _very_ hard not to think of the term 'eye-fuck', the Vulcan ambassador offers her palm, and Jim takes it, broadcasting to her his willingness to form an accord, as well as his pride in his species and in their war capabilities, without calling to mind any specific ship models or armaments that might compromise the Federation, were their details disclosed. She bows her head - again - and steps back.

"We are in accord," she says, "for now. Your conversation has been enlightening. In order to seal our alliance, I have a gift for you, which you will receive when you board my ship on the morrow."

A _gift_? "I am gladdened," Jim says, formally, thinking incongruously of German riding crops.

"Do not be," T'Mek says, her eyes glinting. "For it is a gift, but it is also a test."

  


* * *

  


The gift, as it turns out, is a person.

An actual _person_. Who follows Jim back to his own ship and into his own quarters like a silent, dark-eyed shadow. A really _hot_ dark-eyed shadow, but Jim's ignoring that, mostly for the sake of his own sanity. Endangered species that it is.

"Make yourself at home, and, uh." Jim waves his hand toward the replicator, trying not to notice the long, lithely-muscled limbs encased in skin-tight black leather. The Vulcans sure don't hold back on their gifts, do they? "Get yourself some dinner. If you want."

"Are you hungry, sir?"

Jim _starts_ , because that's actually the first time he's heard the guy _speak_. Jesus. That voice, deep and calm and cultured, seems more like it belongs on the Vulcan High Council than on a - whatever this is. Slave? War trophy? Prostitute? Peace offering? "Don't call me 'sir'. It's weird. Just - Jim will do. Please."

A black eyebrow rises, like the word 'please' doesn't belong in a master's dictionary, and it's the slave's duty to politely and non-verbally remind said master not to make an idiot out of himself.

It's strangely comforting, like there _is_ an actual personality in there, behind the molest-me-I'm-a-sex-object look. Not that Jim doesn't _appreciate_ that look, but total self-objectification freaks him out. Hell, maybe he's actually got morals. Somewhere. "What's your name?"

"My name is Spock," says - Spock, and repeats his previous question. "Are you hungry, Jim?"

"Nah."

"Very well." Spock doesn't move.

"You _can_ still get _yourself_ something to eat, you know."

"A shadow makes no movement of its own. A shadow mirrors its master."

Right. Jim heads over to the food replicator. Orders two sets of _plomeek_ salad with a side of _kasa_. Puts one set in front of Spock, and forces himself to stomach what has to be the blandest goddamn food in the galaxy. Still, at least the food's Vulcan. He can't force this poor bastard to eat something else - not on his first night trapped onboard an alien ship.

Then again, if Spock's a _spy_ , being considerate is the _least_ of Jim's worries, but, well.

Spock's eyes flick upwards, once, to take in the fact that Jim's eating - and then they flick down, and there's this odd, thoughtful _pause_ all over Spock's body, before he reaches out and starts eating, too.

Well, shit. Jim's just gonna have to rearrange his mealtimes to make sure Spock can even _eat_. "So. You're a… shadow? T'Mek mentioned that, too. What exactly does that mean?"

Spock tilts his head. "It means precisely what it means," he says, managing to make Jim feel like an idiot, again, even though Spock's attitude is perfectly, flawlessly deferential. "I must shadow you, in everything that you do, so long as I am with you. I must meet all your needs. I must have no will of my own, or take any action independent of what you wish."

Jim boggles. "Seems a little extreme, doesn't it?"

"It is necessary."

"Necessary for _what_?"

"For the Human-Vulcan alliance."

"T'Mek said _that_ , too. But she said you'd tell me the rest. _How_ is this going to cement our alliance? Most of my crew thinks you're spying on us."

"In a sense, they are right."

Jim stiffens.

"I am not here to gather intelligence. I am not here to gather militarily or strategically applicable information. But I _am_ here to gather cultural and _psychological_ information, and, once I am returned to my people, lodge a full report that will help the High Council determine whether or not to proceed with the alliance."

If Vulcans weren't physiologically incapable of lying, Jim wouldn't feel comforted by that. Actually, he _still_ isn't sure he feels comforted by that. "What 'psychological' information?"

"Essentially, whether the Humans are likely to hold up their end of any agreement made with their allies, and whether they are likely to perform acceptably in battle."

"Basically, whether we're useful. _Worthy_."

Spock looks at him steadily. "Yes."

"And I have you for one month. One month, in which you'll observe me. Us."

"Indeed. You, especially, as you are a commanding officer and our primary contact."

Wonderful. Jim's under the proverbial microscope. The peace of the goddamn _universe_ depends on his conduct. "That's why T'Mek called you a gift _and_ a test, didn't she? But what kind of test is it if I don't know what the questions _are_?"

"I believe I just explained - "

"The hell you did." Jim lifts his fork and stabs it - cold _plomeek_ and all - in Spock's direction. "Vulcans don't _lie_ , yeah. But they sure as hell _omit_."

Spock takes a breath. "While I am with you, I must fulfill all your needs, sir - "

"Jim."

"Jim. And I must answer all your questions. Fully."

"What constitutes a successful assessment?"

"That is not for me to decide. Therefore, I cannot say."

Jim twists a smile. "How _convenient_."

"It is the truth. The truth, Jim, is rarely convenient."

"You always mouth off platitudes like that?"

"I apologize if it seemed insubordinate. In the future, I will withhold any observation that is not directly pertinent to your questions."

"Wait - no. Don't. That's just… artificial."

"Do you not like artificiality, Jim?" The question is surprisingly _earnest_ , and Spock's gazing at him - _just_ at him - with rapt, intense eyes. It's -

It's distracting. "If it's at a personal level, yeah."

"I see." Another one of those full-body _pauses_ , and then, Spock says, "I am obliged to inform you that sexual contact is mandated."

It isn't like Jim hadn't guessed it after one look at that outfit, but - _mandated_? "Don't I get a choice?"

"You do."

"But _you_ don't."

"No," says Spock, like it costs him nothing. "I don't."

Jim doesn't - he doesn't want to _think_ it. So, what, this guy - this _person_ \- just lies back and thinks of Vulcan? It's rape, isn't it? "It's rape," Jim blurts, before he can quite stop himself.

Spock doesn't even flinch. "At times, yes."

"You - you admit to being raped. To having _been_ raped."

"Yes."

Jim feels _sick_. And maybe he's cruel to even be _asking_ this, but - "How many times?"

"Two-hundred-and-nine."

That -

He can't say anything to that.

He _can't_.

"Jim," says Spock, and it's funny, 'cause even though Spock's calling him by his name, his tone obviously implies 'master'. "Are you well?"

Jim's on the verge of throwing up, or maybe _breaking_ something, but it's still - "'m fine," he rasps. "Just - is all this enough of a reason for you to - can _anything_ be enough of a reason to put yourself through this?"

"There is no reason," says Spock, his eyes dark. "Only logic."

Jim swallows. "Sounds a hell of a lot like you're saying there's no sanity, only madness."

Spock inclines his head.

Great. Just _great_. They've sent him a slave to _rape_ , probably because of the touch-telepathy; they must be using Spock as a living conduit to gain a better understanding of their potential allies. The thought of any species being able to _do_ that - being able to sacrifice one of their own - is horrifying, and this is the first time Jim's actually had second thoughts about the alliance.

"You seem troubled, Jim. From the files that I was told to study on Human behavior, you appear to be in some distress."

Jim laughs. Raggedly. "Just - thinking. How's it affect the outcome of the test if someone _doesn't_ … touch you? In that way?"

"As I said, I am not familiar with the assessment process. I cannot say."

"Don't give me that crap, Spock. You have a brain; even if you don't know, you must have _theories_."

Spock's eyes _narrow_. "It is illogical to expend mental energy on needless theorizing that is unrelated to one's duties."

"I thought Vulcans didn't lie."

"I am not lying."

"But it isn't the truth, either, is it? I mean, you've just stated another one of your platitudes, which is always going to be true, because it's a _platitude_. But you haven't actually said anything about _you_ not having theories."

Spock just _studies_ him.

"Fine. _Fine_. But I'll have you know - even if it _would_ give a positive result, even if an ability to… hurt you is in some way a _good_ thing according to the Vulcans, if it makes me more logical or appropriately ruthless, or whatever - I still won't rape you. I _won't_ abuse you in that way."

"Vulcans possess three times the strength of Humans. They are also far more durable. It is unlikely that you would be able to hurt me."

"It isn't just about physical hurt! Jesus - you - how can you call it _rape_ and _still_ say that it doesn't hurt you? That it _isn't_ abuse?"

Spock honestly looks _puzzled_ , for a moment, before his brow clears. "It appears that Humans and Vulcans have different definitions of the word, 'hurt'. I apologize if my words misled you. It was not my intention."

"Not - not your _intention_." Jim runs a hand across his face. "Then, what _is_ hurt? According to you?"

"A lack of purpose. A lack of clarity. Illogic."

"So, as long as you're serving a _purpose_ \- a logical purpose - nothing that happens to you can be categorized as 'hurt'?"

"Yes."

" _Bullshit_."

Spock blinks. "I do not see the relevance of… bovine excrement to this conversation. Please explain."

Jim stares.

And stares.

And _stares_.

"Jim, your expression is difficult to classify. Please enlighten me as to what it represents."

"It represents _massive brain failure_."

Spock's eyes widen. "I take it that you do not mean that literally."

"…holy _shit_."

"Your repeated references to excrement notwithstanding, it appears that my research was correct. Humans repeatedly use irrelevant, non-literal language in order to express their illogical emotions."

"You - did your previous owners _spank_ you, by any chance? Because you sure talk like you're _asking_ for it."

"I am merely being honest. But, yes, my honesty often results in corporal punishment. However, as such punishment often involves physical contact, I am encouraged to seek it out, as it assists in the completion of my mission."

And… Jim's back to gaping. Again. "I'm not going to hit you. And that joke was in poor taste, considering… everything. Damn. It really _was_ terrible. Sorry."

Spock takes a short, abortive breath - not a gasp, but something similar. "You should not apologize to me, si - Jim."

"I thought you weren't supposed to tell me what to do."

Spock looks _conflicted_.

And Jim smiles. He's still feeling pretty fucked up about Spock, and about what's _happened_ to Spock, and what the Vulcans apparently expect Jim to _do_ to him, but Jim's not doing it, anyway, and as far as he's concerned, the Vulcan Pimp Council can go fuck itself.

If he manages to secure this alliance - somehow, despite possibly coming off as a softy that can't even discipline a slave - then he'll be well within his rights to demand a designated diplomatic liaison, and when he _does_ get that chance, he'll ask for Spock.

They sure as hell won't be whoring Spock out, anymore. Not if he's acting as a full-time diplomat and the Federation's preferred liaison.

"You appear to be calmer, now."

"Yeah. Look. I won't - I won't have sex with a slave, okay? But if I need to be touching you for the sake of the, uh, for the."

"The alliance, Jim."

"Yeah. That. If I need to be touching you for that, maybe we could try hand-holding? Face-touching? Something a little less… intimate?"

"Hand-holding," says Spock, blankly, like he's never heard of the _concept_.

"Yep. It's, you know, holding hands."

"That is the most likely explanation for the term."

"Most - " No, Jim _isn't_ going to giggle. Mostly because it'll come out all _hysterical_. "Uh. Right. So, you know, you just - put your hand in mine? That's about it."

Spock is looking at him strangely. For a species that's not supposed to have any emotions whatsoever, or, at least, no _illogical_ emotions, it's a truly bizarre expression. Heck, if they're talking classifications, _Jim_ can't classify it.

"What?"

"I believe that what you describe as 'hand-holding' is identical to Vulcan courtship."

Oh, _shit_. To touch-telepaths, even 'less intimate' touching is probably a big deal, and - shit. "Have I just… asked for your hand in marriage, or something?"

For a moment, something very like amusement flashes across Spock's face, but then it's gone. "Or something." And while the amusement's gone from his face, it somehow lingers in his _voice_ , which is just a tad drier than usual. "Certainly, no other master has ever proposed to me, before."

Jim drops his head into his hands. "Sorry."

"You apologize with statistically anomalous regularity."

"Is there - is there no way to do this without… imposing on you?" How _can_ Jim touch a freaking touch-telepath _without_ imposing on him?

"Jim," Spock says, and now, despite still being perfectly level and perfectly bland, his voice manages also to be _gentle_. "Nothing you can do to me will be an 'imposition'."

"That's the _problem_ , here - "

"I do not understand your concern, but… holding hands, as you call it, cannot possibly be an imposition on me, as it is your mind that will be laid bare to mine, not vice versa. You are not telepathic; ergo, it cannot be considered on par with Vulcan acts of intimacy."

Jim sighs in relief. "Good. That - that's good. So we'll, uh, do that."

"Tonight?"

"No, we'll. Tomorrow. I think you need… some time."

"For what would I need time?"

"To adjust. You know. Emotionally."

"I do not harbor emotions that would hamper my adjustment in a new environment."

"Even if you don't, or you _say_ you don't, I'm your master, and I'm saying you need time, okay? I'm not going to start touching you the moment you - never mind. Just, uh. Go to sleep. I've gotta be up at 0500 hours, and if you're going to be my 'shadow', you'll have to be up, too, won't you?"

"I am required to follow you throughout the day, yes."

"Then you need sleep. How long are Vulcan sleep cycles, anyway?"

"In Earth hours, a Vulcan requires no more than three point two-nine hours of sleep per every twenty-four hour period."

"That little? Man, you're gonna get bored while I catch my Zs. Here," Jim gets up and reaches for the recreational PADD on his table. "Use this. It's got quite a bit of Earth literature on it, and a couple other things, besides. Holos, music, that sort of stuff."

Spock has another one of those full-body pauses; Jim's seriously going to have to figure out what they _mean_. "Thank you," he says. He takes the PADD from Jim and stares down at it, like it's some sort of alien meteorite that's landed in his hands.

"Uh. Unless you'd like something else?"

"No," says Spock, quickly, and looks up at Jim. There's an odd new light in his eyes. "This is more than sufficient."

"Great! That's, that's nice. Tomorrow, we'll scrounge up something better, logic puzzles or something, I hear Chekov's got an amazing one. Kid's a genius, really."

And Spock's still _looking_ at him. Spock is also wearing leather. The insides of Spock's thighs, however, are _not_ wearing leather. Neither are the insides of his elbows. Or his _wrists_.

Jim gulps. For a people that aren't supposed to understand much about emotions, the Vulcans sure know how to titillate. "There's… I'll get Yeoman Rand to bring a bunk in for you, so maybe you could, um, get changed? Into something?"

Spock does what Jim is beginning to recognize as the head-tilt of generic incomprehension. "Vulcans do not transmute before or during sleep cycles. Only insectoid species tend to do so."

"That - heh. I only meant, you might want to be more comfortable. That outfit's kind of… uh. Tight."

"I understand. You prefer that I sleep in the nude."

"No! No, no, _no_. Please wear something. _Anything_. Preferably something resembling a monk's _robe_ \- "

"Are we to participate in a religious ceremony?"

"No, er. Just ignore what I said. I'll… replicate you some sleepwear. Human sleepwear. That okay with you?"

"I will wear whatever my master wishes me to wear." _Or not, if he prefers me naked,_ is left unsaid, but Jim can _hear_ it. He wonders if he's been traumatized into developing telepathic abilities, or something - even though it's unlikely that the parade of pornographic images in his own _head_ aren't entirely of his own making.

"Then that's what you'll wear. I'll just - go and replicate those clothes, all right? Stay here."

"Jim," says Spock, just as Jim's about to leave. The clothing replicator's in his bathroom, the location of which makes sense, usually, except when he's got inter-galactic guests that prefer to _strip on command_.

Jim turns around. "Yeah?"

To his surprise, Spock seems almost hesitant. "Based on what I have already observed," Spock says, softly, not meeting Jim's eyes, "I do not believe it would be a hardship to touch you."

Jim _stills_. "Uh."

And then, Spock _does_ meet his eyes. "It would be no hardship, at all."

Leather. _Leather_. Honesty. _Leather_. Vulcans do not lie. And also, _leather_.

Jim almost falls over himself in his hurry to get out of the room.

Hell, maybe he'll replicate those clothes later. He needs a cold shower, _first_.  


* * *

  
**to be continued.**  
Eventually.  
Please review!

**Author's Note:**

> Updates, previews and snippets are generally posted on [my journal](http://saucery.livejournal.com/), so feel free to follow it, if you'd like to keep up!


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